


Arch Your Back

by inkfiction



Series: Bleighton prompts [3]
Category: Gossip Girl RPF
Genre: Archiving previous works, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-12
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkfiction/pseuds/inkfiction
Summary: Something about mathematics and angles. Light smut. Blake POV.





	Arch Your Back

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. I own none of these very real people.

You are lying on your back, your fingers trying to find purchase in silky brown tresses — they keep slipping through your fingers — of the head buried between your legs. Your other hand clutches at the sheets as if your life depends upon it. Leighton bites on the inside of your thigh, hard, and you cannot stop the animalistic cry of “Leight!” that escapes from somewhere that you tell yourself  _cannot_  be the back of your throat, or the reflexive arching of your back. She kisses the spot to ease the sting of the bite, licks it, and you whimper as you feel her lips move against the tender, sensitive flesh of the inside of your thigh.

“What did I—” she says, every word punctuated by a bite, a kiss, a lick. “—say about this earlier?”

And all this biting, kissing and licking is making it very hard to concentrate, not to mention the teasing flicks of her thumb against your clit which are driving you so out of your mind that you can hardly remember your own name, let alone anything that came  _before_  this moment.

“Leight, please,” you beg and roll your hips towards her to find the friction that you desperately need to take you over the edge, give you the relief you want. “Baby, please — I — need—”

She bites hard on the same spot as before and the words die in your throat in a gurgling sound. And you’re so close, you almost sob as she laughs, her warm breath hitting you down there.

“What did I say, Blakey?”

This time her lips are a little closer to the pulsating, throbbing center of you, and you try to earn them, try to remember what she had said — it was something about —  _oh, sweet Jesus, yes, right there_  — mathematics? A particular —  _God, God, God, yes_  — angle? How to bend —  _oh, fuck, yes!_  — your back, just so — and you come hard against her mouth as you arch your back, incoherent sounds spilling from your lips.

“Good girl,” you hear the smile in her voice, and match it with one of your own as you stare at the ceiling fan in a happy daze.


End file.
